


You've Got the Wrong Holmes

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock gets on the plane for the mission to Eastern Europe after all. Mycroft is surprised to discover a secret his brother has been hiding from him, and now Molly needs his help. The question is, can, and should, he keep this knowledge from Sherlock? Will Sherlock come home, or is it only foolish thinking?
Relationships: Warstan - Relationship, mollcroft brotp, sherlolly
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74





	1. You've Got the Wrong Holmes!

“I’m going to be sick.”

The information, while not totally surprising (given Molly’s condition) was somewhat distressing as there was a considerable distance between herself and the nearest toilet.

“Oh…uh-“ Mycroft hated that word. ‘Uh’ it wasn’t even a bloody word and with his vast vocabulary, ‘uh’ was simply lazy speech. Yet, when it came to trying to find a solution for Molly’s current predicament, he was at a loss for words.

She didn’t seem to mind at any rate. She blew out her breath, bending over so her head was almost between her knees. “Just find a waste-basket, it doesn’t always happen but it might, and I’d hate to ruin your carpet.”

“There’s a washroom at the other end of the room-“

“I can’t walk, Mycroft, just give me a bloody waste basket!”

He obeyed, taking the one under his desk and placing it under her lowered head.

After about five minutes or so of careful breathing, she finally straightened. “I think I’ll be all right for now, thank you. I hope I didn’t frighten you,” she smiled weakly, still pale.

Mycroft shrugged it off, pretending that he had not been in a horrendous panic only moments ago. “Perfectly understandable, now, as to what I was saying earlier…”

“He knows,” Molly confirmed before he could restate his question. “Sherlock knew before he went into hiding.”

Mycroft’s gaze fell to the ring that hung on a chain around her neck. “I take it then congratulations are in order. I should have known he’d give himself a reason to come back to London.”

“There was always a reason,” Molly shrugged. “John, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you-“

Mycroft snorted, shaking his head.

“It’s true,” she insisted.

“If it isn’t too personal a question, may I inquire as to when this all happened?”

“Last New Year, after the Adler incident.”

Mycroft frowned. He had taken his brother’s reaction to finding Miss Adler to be genuine. Molly seemed to be reading his mind, for she went on:

“He did care about Miss Adler, but not the way everyone thought he did. He admitted to me he did find her attractive, but I suppose for once he used common sense and decided that arms-length was best.”

“I think he rather put aside that distance when it came to you, however,” Mycroft replied crisply, eyeing the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely visible but still telling to one with an eye. “May I ask when the happy day was?”

“The conceiving of your nephew, or the date Sherlock and I got married?”

“Why the conceiving, of course,” he answered, smiling thinly.

Molly shook her head, truly amused. “We were married in February. I found out I was pregnant a month after he went into hiding.”

Mycroft nodded, pondering this information. “And does he know?”

Slowly, Molly shook her head. “The timing is always off with us,” she answered. “We didn’t even have a proper wedding, we just…snatched what time we had, grabbed flowers from a corner store,” she smiled a little at the memory. “I insisted on at least flowers. We ran to the nearest Justice of the Peace and were married in fifteen minutes. Didn’t even have a honeymoon. At the time it didn’t matter because we were together,” she shrugged, smiling despite her watery eyes. “I do wish…when I have my selfish moments, that we’d had a big wedding, like John and Mary, and had a nice holiday, just the two of us.” With a sigh, she shrugged, replacing her frown with a wistful smile. “But I won’t say I regret marrying him. The months we had together were wonderful,”

“But not quite what you envisioned your married life to be.” Mycroft finished.

“No,” Molly shook her head. “But life couldn’t’ be normal, not until Moriarty was dealt with, how could we make anything public with everything that was happening? It was safer…is safer.” She placed the flat of her palm over her belly. “It is hard, sometimes...”

Mycroft felt a small stab of guilt then. Molly Hooper (or Holmes, rather) did not have family to speak of. Her sister was estranged, her father dead. John and Mary Watson had been distant since Sherlock had left. If they knew, of course they would have offered their support. That was the sort of people they were, but no one was privy to Sherlock and Molly’s relationship, not even Mycroft. He had found out about it by way of a CCTV feed. Through the black-and-white visual monitor, he was surprised to see Molly in the maternity section of Harrods, clearly shopping for herself. There was only one possible solution to why she would be there, and who indeed, the father must have been. It had been easy to put two-and-two together, but he had been more shocked (yes, he could use that word confidently in this instant) that Sherlock and Molly’s relationship had gone on for longer than anyone had known about.

“What about that bridesmaid of Mrs. Watson’s, what was her name, Janine?”

“She never actually stayed the night,” Molly replied. “The morning John came, she’d gone up and used the shower, put on one of Sherlock’s shirts, I suppose she was hoping to convince him to stay in,” Molly smiled to herself. She did feel that Sherlock had done the woman wrong, and made him pay some recompense for Janine’s troubles.

“And Tom, I already recall was one of my security measures,” Mycroft nodded, recalling his brother’s call that someone be placed as detail to Molly Hooper. Mycroft had found the request curious, but acquiesced.

“So, now you know,” Molly sighed. “And I hope you’ll keep it to yourself.”

“Miss Hooper- er,”

“Molly,”

“Molly,” he corrected himself, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. “I rather think it will make itself known given a little time,”

“I’d rather it that way than having to tell everyone,” she said quietly. “John and Mary are busy with their own lives, with their baby. The last thing they need is a reminder of what Sherlock kept from them, and what he left behind,” she held up a hand as Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. “I know he made his own choices that night. He told me he would stop at nothing, and…I know you think he did wrong, killing Magnussen.” She shrugged, helpless. “Maybe he did. I don’t’ know enough about it to say one way or another. But I do know who I married, and he never acted without reason or cause.”

“He lost the game, pure and simple,” Mycroft answered. “He never did know how to lose.”

“But he knew there would be consequences,” Molly said. “I guess the only thing he didn’t take into consideration was just how big a consequence it would be.”

Mycroft was silent then, feeling the unusual pang of guilt. Everyone who had cared about Sherlock was given a chance to say goodbye to him that last day. Everyone but Molly, for no one had known how much the pathologist meant to Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft did know, however, that his brother had a burner phone for the time being, and Molly was one of the two people he called. Three months into his mission, the days were ticking down to a deadline no one wanted to meet. A thought occurred to Mycroft suddenly.

“Has he said…anything about this mission to you?”

Her silence was telling. Slowly, the barest of smiles formed. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, hands again moving to cover her abdomen. “Nothing substantial,” she said at last. “But…I know.” She looked up at Mycroft, meeting his piercing gaze. “I know this time…he’s not coming back.” Her mouth pulled into a frown as she covered her eyes. “It isn’t fair.”

She wept, wrapping her arms around herself, head bowed. Unexpectedly, she felt the lithe arm of Mycroft Holmes come around her shoulders, squeezing gently. Opening her eyes, she saw he offered her his handkerchief.

“Life is hardly fair,” he said gently. “I am more sorry than I can say that this is how it must be,” he paused then, gathering his thoughts. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew another chair up beside hers. “But…I should like to point out that this burden is not yours to bear alone,”

She lifted her head, mouth hanging open slightly in shock. “Mycroft,” she began, but he held up a hand to silence her.

“You are the one my brother chose, and I am pleased that it was such a woman of your character,” he said honestly. “While the situation is not ideal, nor hardly what it should be, I should like for you to know you have my support in whatever it is that needs doing now. Whatever means needed for the child, for yourself, you have only to ask.”

She smiled at her lap, shaking her head. “He needs a family, Mycroft, _we_ , need a family.”

He lifted his eyebrows, and slowly, he nodded. “Then that is what I shall be.”

Molly left soon afterwards, declining Mycroft’s offer for tea. He sent her home in one of his cars, and made a note for her to be added to his driver’s routes, as well as send them her schedule. Being the sister in-law of the British Government ought to have some benefits, and he strongly disliked the idea of Molly taking the Underground. That finished, he set to work. Anthea was sent off to hunt for a suitable place for Molly and the child to live. Her current flat, while perfectly suitable for an acquaintance of Sherlock, was hardly a place for Mycroft’s sister in-law and soon-to-be-arriving nephew. She would need somewhere close to her work, a secure place with a garden and perhaps room for a dog, should his nephew take after his brother’s childhood desires for a companion. Anthea would know best what suited the pathologist’s needs.

He set up a trust fund for the child as well, and deposited a substantial amount into Molly’s personal account, sending her a note that appropriate funds were available for her to begin shopping for a nursery. With Anthea busy house-hunting, and Molly overjoyed (currently flooding his inbox with overjoyed texts, half of them scolding him for his extravagance) Mycroft went back to his desk to make one final call. Hand hovering over the call button, he thought back to what he had promised Molly earlier.

_“Don’t tell Sherlock.”_

_Mycroft hesitated to give his word. “I don’t think-“_

_“I have to insist on this, I do,” Molly cut in. “If he doesn’t come back, if he…” she steeled herself. “If he dies there, knowing he had to leave me, and a baby he’ll never meet…” she trailed off, sighing heavily, once again on the verge of tears. “I can’t do that to him, Mycroft, and don’t you do it to him either. He’s carrying enough guilt.”_

_“I still think it’s wrong,” he replied. “But you have my word, I shan’t speak of it to him.”_

Sighing heavily, he pressed the button, waiting for the other end to pick up.

_“Hello?”_

“Mummy, I have a favor to ask.”

He heard his mother sigh.

_“It would be nice if you simply said ‘hello’ once in a while.”_

“I’m afraid I haven’t time for pleasantries,” Mycroft quipped. “But I do need a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer from you.”

_“Good heavens,”_

He could hear his mother pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting down.

_“Well go on then.”_

“Mummy how would you like to meet Sherlock’s wife?”

* * *

**The Following Weekend**

“You didn’t have to see me off,” Molly said as she pulled her coat on.

Mycroft stood in the doorway of her kitchen, coat and umbrella on his arm. “Nonsense. Mummy would be horrified if she knew I sent you to her without any sort of goodbye.”

“You’re sure it won’t be an imposition?” Molly worried. “They’ve never even met me before.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Mummy likes everyone, well, almost everyone,” he clarified. “She wanted you to come as soon as I told her, but I knew you would have preferred to take the weekend.”

“I would, yes,” Molly nodded.

“Is this it then for bags?”

“Yes,” she reached for her suitcase but Mycroft beat her to it. “I’m not an invalid.”

“You still shouldn’t be lifting anything,” he sniffed.

“You realize I have to heft dead bodies on my job, right?” she asked, following him downstairs and to the sidewalk where the car was waiting. “A full grown man weighs far more than my weekend bag.”

“You’d never know it,” Mycroft grunted, lifting the bag and handing it over to the driver to put in the trunk. “Now, James will be driving you to Mummy and Father’s, he’ll pick you up on Sunday afternoon so you needn’t worry about train fare.”

“I’d say I was worried about putting you out as far as transportation goes, but I’m sure you have a slew of chauffeurs.”

Mycroft looked indignant as James chuckled under his breath. “I wouldn’t say ‘slew’,” he grumbled. “Well, now then, have a good weekend, here, Anthea sent these over for you to look at. Three houses and two flats that might be suitable for your needs.”

“I still think you’re doing too much,” Molly said, taking the files from him.

“My dear sister,” Mycroft folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella. “It is hardly enough.”

“You don’t have to buy the world because Sherlock isn’t here,” she said gently.

“No,” he agreed quietly, thoughtful. “But I must do something, and preparation is what I excel at.”

“I thought you Holmes men excelled at everything,” she replied with a smirk.

“Oh…get in the car,” he huffed, annoyed.

“You haven’t heard from him, have you?” There was always the tinge of hope in her voice that she tried so desperately to put aside. She didn’t want to hope that there was a chance. But sometimes he called Mycroft, and it meant he was still alive. Molly lived for the days when she received a short text from Sherlock. It meant he was working, it meant he was breathing still. She tried to tell herself that it was just like before, when he was in hiding. The hard part was reconciling herself to the fact that it wasn’t like before, and there was very likely to be no happy ending.

Mycroft looked at her directly. “No,” he answered. “It is unlikely that I would hear from him before you.”

“If you do-“

“I know,” he nodded, interrupting. “I shan’t breathe a word, and I shall tell him to call you directly.”

She rose on tip toe, pressing his cheek then. “ _Thank you_.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat gruffly. “Go on then, mummy is watching the clock, she expects you no later than half-past two, and if she doesn’t see you by then, she’ll send for the police.”

So Molly climbed into the car, waving goodbye as the car pulled into traffic.

Anthea came to stand beside him. “Sir?”

“You’ve increased her security?”

“Yes.”

“Who else do we know that she’s told about this…situation?”

Another unmarked car pulled alongside the curb and Mycroft opened the door for Anthea.

“Mike Stamford at Barts knows some of Mrs. Holmes situation, only that she’s pregnant. He doesn’t know she’s married, or who the father is.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I should like for her to be out of the media as much as possible. The last thing she needs is for the paparazzi to label her as ‘The Widow of the Fake Sherlock Holmes, or whatever other nonsense they’ll come up with.”

Anthea nodded, humming in agreement. “Have you told your brother, yet?”

Mycroft looked with a start at his PA. “I beg your pardon?”

“Something like this, he needs to know,” Anthea said, looking up at him. “It might be what he needs to help-“

“Help what, Anthea?” Mycroft interrupted, exasperated. “My brother is not coming home.”

“I agree that there is a slim chance of his surviving, sir but-“

“It is slim to none, there is a ninety-seven percent chance that he will not survive.” He turned to look out the window, indicating he would not discuss it further. “It does no good to hope.”

“It doesn’t do any harm, either.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder to see Anthea hammering away at her phone, mouth set in a grim line. It was not often that they disagreed, but when it did happen, it made the day much longer, and much more difficult.


	2. Ch-ch-ch-Changes

**One Month Later**

"I hope they aren't wearing you out, I know how much father likes to take extended walk-abouts in the countryside." Mycroft accepted the teacup from Molly, gently blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a sip.

"They're lovely, and no, they aren't at all tiring me out, well, not yet. Ask me again in two months." Molly glanced over at the knitted baby blanket that sat by her now empty suitcase.

Of course, Mycroft saw. "Ah. I wondered when Mummy would bequeath a knitted horror to you."

"It isn't either!" Molly flicked his arm with a tea towel. "It's lovely." Mycroft's smirk was too much like Sherlock's, so Molly kept talking before her thoughts led her to tears. "As soon as she found out she started making it the first visit. She finished it this past Sunday morning, just in time." Ever since she had first gone to the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, as long as she had the weekends off, she spent Saturday and Sunday with them, and happily. They were a comfortable couple, all too happy to tell her all about Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood, happy to boast of both their sons' accomplishments, and to share in however much of their future grandchild's life Molly would allow them to. Naturally, she wanted them to be a large part of his life, and told them so. The frequent visits to the country, seeing Sherlock's parents, it eased the pain, somewhat. Memories of Sherlock were all there in that lovely, warm cottage, but none that Molly had, it was less painful to talk about him there, somehow.

"You like them."

Molly looked up with a start, Mycroft's statement pulling her from her thoughts. She nodded. "I do. Your father reminds me of mine, before he got sick."

"I hope Mummy isn't being too nosy."

"No. She asked the usual questions I would expect a mum to ask, how we met, where we got married, that sort of thing. I only wish I had more to tell her." She paused. "I wasn't sure what either of them knew about the situation in Europe."

"They know he isn't coming home," Mycroft answered with a sigh. "That is all they need to know."

"What about you?" Molly asked

"What about me?" he parroted. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how are you holding up? Just because you pretend you haven't got a heart doesn't make it true."

"A good many people would beg to differ, including, my dear, your husband."

"He only says it to annoy you, the same as you do, him," she replied. When Mycroft didn't reply, she shrugged. "Well you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. If you need to talk, or would like to talk, you know you can always come here. I promise you'll be quite safe."

Not knowing how to respond without sounding sentimental, Mycroft sipped his tea.

"Did Anthea text you when the moving van is coming?"

"She did. She said to tell you it will be here Thursday. Your schedule has been cleared this week so you can pack."

"I feel like a broken record, I say it so often, but I mean it every time: thank you," Molly said. "Truly, I don't know what I'd do if you weren't helping me."

"You would have called the Watson's, no doubt," Mycroft replied. "Eventually, you would have."

"I'm not so sure, but it's nice you have confidence in me," Molly said with a laugh. She saw him checking his watch. "When will you come back?" '

Mycroft glanced up sharply, still unused to his company being requested with intent to actually spend time with him. "I…am not sure," he scrolled through his phone. "I'll send you a text when I know for certain. Be sure to text Anthea if you have any questions, I'll be in the House until the MP's learn to use their indoor voices."

Molly snorted in amusement, following him to the door.

"Are you certain you made the right choice, as far as accommodations go? Wouldn't you prefer something else?"

Molly shook her head, adamant. "I'm sure."

"Well the appliances have all been replaced, and the furniture you wanted to keep has been taken out of storage. I've left a list for you as well, of everything else. If there's anything else you want out of storage-"

"Send Anthea a text, I know," Molly laughed. "I think she's going to get very tired of seeing my name pop up on her phone."

"I think she prefers talking to you than most of the buffoons she has to deal with," Mycroft smirked. "I'm off. Ta for these," he rattled the box of biscuits she made him take along to share with Anthea. He was off then, out the door and into the waiting car. With a sigh, Molly shut her door. Time to start packing.

* * *

The following day, Molly was surprised to see Mycroft's car waiting for her outside of Barts.

"I heard you had been called in," he said as she approached the car. He opened the door for her and she climbed in, taking the seat opposite. He tapped on the privacy glass and the car pulled back into traffic.

"I didn't expect to see you for another week," Molly said.

"A meeting was cancelled and my PA informs me that as your brother in-law and a soon-to-be-Uncle, I ought to spend more time with you, especially at such a trying time."

"As she so often is, she's right," Molly said, eyes teasing as she smiled at him.

"How is the morning sickness?" Mycroft asked.

"Getting better, I'm glad it's not lasting. Some women have it all through their pregnancies," Molly answered. "What about you? Are you really looking forward to being an uncle?"

"I am…used to the idea," he said carefully. "I should feel better about the whole situation if you would follow the security protocol I put in place for you."

"I don't need an armed escort, Mycroft," Molly shook her head. It was comforting, somewhat, knowing he cared enough to want to have her so protected. It spoke a good deal of his affection for his brother.

"Merely doing what Sherlock would have wanted me to do," Mycroft excused.

"He would not have asked that I have a security detail!"

Mycroft gave her a look, smirking. "Are you quite certain we are speaking of the same Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. "Believe me, if he were here, he would have demanded a ring of guards around you at all times, and most likely padding on every surface in case you should fall."

Molly laughed then, truly laughed, and Mycroft chuckled at her amusement.

"When is your next appointment?" he asked once she'd calmed down. "Anthea has on the schedule you'll be getting another ultrasound."

"Just another check-up, that will be on Friday."

"Anything wrong?" He may have sounded calm, but Molly caught the flash of worry in his eyes.

"Everything is fine, perfectly normal," she promised. "It's routine."

"Hm," he studied her for a moment. "It won't be too much for you? Moving in Thursday and then an appointment on Friday?"

Molly looked at him with some surprise, not quite used to his mothering.

"I'm afraid I must do it," Mycroft said in response to her curious expression. "Mummy isn't here to do it, and if Sherlock ever catches wind I didn't say anything he'd probably come up with some hideous torture for me, all the way from Eastern Europe."

"I'll be fine," Molly promised. "I should be packed by the time the movers come," she added after a moment.

"Don't hesitate to call if you need anything else," Mycroft reminded her. "You realize the Watson's are going to find out one way or another."

"I know," Molly insisted. "I know everyone will…"

* * *

**Thursday, 221b Baker Street**

"What's going on here?" John asked. He got out of the cab, staring at the commotion across the way. Mary climbed out after him. They had planned a visit to Mrs. Hudson, bringing with them Charlotte.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson got a new lodger," Mary said, looking at the moving van, the pile of boxes and the workmen.

John looked at his wife, aghast. "She wouldn't dare!"

"She would if she needed the money," Mary said, boosting the baby carrier onto her arm. "Come on, let's go see."

John hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Here, I'll carry her," he offered, and Mary passed him the carrier. Hand on her lower back, they hurried across the street, looking in the moving van, then at each other frowning.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called from the stoop, careful of the boxes piled around them. He waited for Mary to pass through before stepping in. "Mrs. Hudson are you in?"

Mary looked at the handwriting on some of the boxes, shaking her head to John that she didn't recognize it.

"Oh John, Mary, isn't it wonderful!" the elderly woman was heading down from the second story, smiling.

"Er, yes," Mary glanced at John, putting on a smile. "It looks like you've got a new lodger."

"I wouldn't have, I wasn't sure if I'd ever let the flat, considering, I don't think I'd have wanted to for anyone," Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly.

"Then why are you?" John asked, voice clipped. Mary touched his arm, a gentle reminder.

"Well I-"

"Mrs. Hudson, have you seen the second box of kitchen things anywhere? I thought they brought it- oh…" Molly stopped short on the landing, seeing that she and Mrs. Hudson were no longer alone.

John looked at Molly. He looked her up and down, from her yoga pants to the rather blousy shift that hung down to her thighs. While he'd never seen her in casual clothes, there was something different about Molly Hooper that he could not put his finger on. He supposed he had expected her to be a little gaunt. He recalled she'd lost a good deal of weight the first time Sherlock went away. She seemed pale now, but healthier too. Very odd.

"It will be so good to have someone upstairs again," Mrs. Hudson was saying, smiling at Molly. "And besides that a-"

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly broke in. "I wonder if you would have the moving men just bring the boxes into the front hall for now, and then they can have their tea."

"Oh I nearly forgot I was fixing them something," Mrs. Hudson hurried off, promising John and Mary 'a little something' before they left.

The workers filed through the hall, into Mrs. Hudson's flat, nodding to Molly, greeting Mrs. Hudson as she handed them cups of tea and plates of sandwiches.

The silence in the hall was almost deafening.

"You ought to come up," Molly said at last. "We- er…that is there's been some changes upstairs."

John, still having said nothing to her, looked to Mary. Gently, she nudged him forward, following Molly up to the second floor.

He was hesitant. He hadn't set foot in Baker Street for so long now. At least not the flat. Mary went right up, complimenting Molly on the choice of colors. Colors? She'd repainted?! He lingered in the doorway, having given Mary the baby carrier. From where he stood, most of the flat looked the same, his chair still faced the windows, and the sofa and Sherlock's chair were in their usual spots. The coffee table was different, and the decorations on the mantle were changed, though, John was a little pleased to see that Billy the skull was still there. Molly saw him looking and smiled shyly.

"I couldn't bear to part with him."

"You could've done without that," Mary said, eyeing the bovine skull lamp.

Molly laughed, shaking her head. "No, I had to keep it, and the wallpaper," she nodded to the wall the couch was against and John followed her gaze. "Though I did have them paper over the spray paint."

"Mrs. Hudson was always after him to get it fixed," Mary nodded her approval. "New ceramic tile in the kitchen for a back-splash, I like the color of it, the little Napoleon honeybee pattern, I especially like the honeycombs."

"I saw them and thought they ought to be here," Molly nodded. She worried her hands, concerned at the lack of reaction from the army doctor. "He was always talking about apiology."

"You got new appliances," John suddenly said.

Molly looked at him with a start. "Yes…Mycroft insisted everything in the kitchen be replaced-"

"Mycroft?!" John barked, shocked.

"John," Mary said quietly.

"He's been very helpful to me," Molly said, a tinge of anger in her voice.

"We'd have been helpful to you as well, if you'd asked," John shot back. "I suppose you'd rather go to him, since he's the one with money. Buy Sherlock's flat, hell sell tickets-"

"John!" Mary gasped.

"I didn't ask you to come today!" Molly shouted back, finding her eyes were blurry. "I didn't ask for you to barge in when I'm trying to-"

"To what?" John interrupted. "Do what? What memories do _you_ have of this place? Why are you here?"

"Because he's my husband!" Molly cried, before sinking into one of the kitchen chairs, sobbing. She covered her eyes with her hand, and John suddenly caught sight of a diamond ring glittering on her finger.

"Oh my God," he murmured at the same time as Mary.

"Molly," his wife stepped forward, kneeling down as the pathologist wept. "Molly, why didn't you ever say?"

"It was a secret for so-so long," Molly sniffed, reaching for the tissue box on the table, then threw it over her shoulder. "Hell that one's empty," she tugged at the hem of her shift, wiping her eyes.

John fished through his pockets, handing her his kerchief. "Here," he murmured, rather shell-shocked by the news.

"Mycroft knows; he's known for a month now," Molly blew her nose, folding the kerchief over again before wiping her eyes. "He wanted to find me a flat closer to work, he even had a few new places for me to look at but…" she shrugged, helpless. "I couldn't let someone else live here, not with the baby and-"

"Baby?" Mary frowned. She looked at Molly's belly, the swell of her abdomen and then to John, shock, surprise, and sheer delight. "Oh my God!"

John stared, mouth agape. He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to process what Molly had just said. "Okay, uh-" pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a breath. "Go back. Start from the beginning."

"She and Sherlock had sex, John," Mary clarified with a grin. She squeezed Molly's hands. "Oh I wish you could have told us sooner!"

"Well I-"

"Wait- wait- _wait_ ," John broke in. "Let me get this straight: you and Sherlock were married. For how long?!"

"Since January, after Sherlock saved Irene Adler." Molly answered.

"January- that's almost three years!" John protested, flabbergasted.

"Yes," Molly nodded.

"Okay but _\- what?!_ " John shook his head. "That means that you two- all this time-"

"Yes, John, we get it," Mary interrupted.

"No, wait, I want to know, _why_ did this have to be a secret?"

"Because of Moriarty," Molly replied. "He couldn't know about me. Especially not when I was helping Sherlock when he went into hiding."

"No one bloody well knew you were helping him," John muttered.

"Mycroft did," Molly snapped, having had just enough of the good doctor's bitterness on the subject that everyone else seemed to have put behind them. "And Mycroft is the one who has kept in contact with me."

John had the decency to look somewhat ashamed then. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "I guess…this time when he left it…"

"It was worse than before," Molly finished. She covered her belly, soothing circles over it. "But you both got to say goodbye to him."

Mary covered her mouth, realizing. No one would have thought to call Molly.

"Do you hear from him?" John wanted to know.

Molly shrugged. "Less and less these days. At first it was every two weeks, then last month I heard from him twice," she bit her lip, blinking as she felt her eyes fill with tears again. "I think he's trying to distance himself from…" she gestured to the flat. "All of this. Make the parting easier."

"Does he know about, _this_?" Mary pointed to Molly's belly.

The pathologist shook her head. "No. And he won't find out."

"Molly!"

"Don't-" she held up a hand to both of them. "Don't start with me, either of you. I can't tell him, not through a text, and it would only remind him of what he can't…" another heavy sigh. She wiped her eyes again, bowing her head. "What he can't have," she finished weakly before giving way to tears again. She gathered herself after a moment, sighing. "It must be quite a surprise to you, finding out that he could love someone in that way."

"Of course not," Mary soothed, while John nodded, ' _Obviously'_ in agreement with Molly. Mary gave him a look. "We just wish you had told us."

"Well," Molly sniffed. "You know now. I suppose you'd rather go now, after that bombshell being dropped on you."

John stood in the middle of the flat, hands on his hips. He had a strange look about him. Finally, he nodded. "Okay." Then marched out the door and the down the stairs.

"John?" Mary got to her feet. "Wait here, Molly- John?"

At the top of the stairs, Mary stopped, only to see John discarding his jacket, hanging it on the end of the railing. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up. He looked up the stairs to his wife. "Ask Molly what she wants brought up first."

Mary beamed with pride at her husband, turning back to the open door of the flat.

"Better put the kettle on, Molly, John get's awfully cranky if he doesn't have his tea after he's finished work!"


	3. Life, the Universe, and Everything

Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella on the door and waited.

And waited.

He knocked again.

After a few moments, he heard a soft: “Come in, Mycroft,” from within.

Stepping into 221b, Mycroft gave a cautious look around before entering all the way, shutting the door behind him. Molly did not appear from the kitchen, nor was she visible from the sofa or either chair in the living room. Setting his umbrella and briefcase down, he moved further into the apartment.

“Molly?”

“Here,”

He crossed the room, and coming to stand by John’s chair, was surprised, and somewhat concerned, to see his sister in-law (at nearly six months pregnant, mind) lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.

“Molly!”

“I’m fine,” she batted a hand at him.

Clearly she was _not_ fine. Scanning her features, Mycroft could see nothing physically wrong with her, and nothing in the flat was out of place that indicated she had fallen to the floor. It seems she was laying there purely by choice, hence his confusion.

“I beg to differ,” he said at last. His phone buzzed in his pocket, so excusing himself, he retrieved it, swiping the screen.

_I can handle your afternoon meetings. Talk to her. – A_

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

_Anthea I don’t have time to do this. Nor am I equipped to handle this situation. – M_

Her response came in record time.

_As her brother in-law you are socially obligated to talk to her. She is about to bring a human life into the world, without the support of a husband, father or mother. Either talk to her or I’ll see that every bakery from here to Italy won’t sell you so much as a napkin. -A_

_You know I can accomplish this. Do not. Test me. -A_

Mycroft pocketed his phone, deciding his PA had far too much power. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Molly, she was clearly upset. He wasn’t terribly good at sentiment. This was most definitely more Sherlock’s area, even if he’d deny it. Well, there was only one thing for it.

“Tea?” Mycroft called, heading to the kitchen. Putting the kettle on would give him something to do, something to look forward to, and keep him distracted. “I see the Watson’s have finished helping you move in,” he filled the kettle and switched it on, turning once more to the counter to find the container marked ‘TEA’ in bright, curly-cue letters. By the time the kettle began to boil, he’d set up a decent looking tray, measured out an appropriate amount of tea in each infuser and found a box of Jacob’s Cream Crackers.

He brought the tray through, setting it on the coffee table and poured out.

“Now,” he said, once he was settled into John’s chair. “Will you tell me what the matter is?”

“Oh…” Molly blinked, voice wavering slightly, sounding weary. “Life…the universe…everything.” She pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes, mouth pulling into a frown.

Mycroft recognized the statement as a quote, clearly a pop-culture reference. Still, he pondered her words carefully. She was overwhelmed. The pregnancy probably being the main cause of that, but also coming to grips with the fact that she would not see Sherlock again, having to raise the child as a single parent, balancing work and child-rearing, moving to a new flat. Yes, Molly’s life was…chaotic at the moment.

“Do you ever feel like that?” Molly asked, she heaved a watery sigh, sniffling.

He cradled the mug in his hands, reflective. Did he sometimes feel that his entire life was going wrong? Nearly every day. That was part of the challenge, and he did enjoy his work for the most part, solving problems that others could not, finding effective, simple solutions and executing them with relative ease, without the trouble of too much leg-work.

“Well, I-”

Molly gave a snort of derision. “No of course you wouldn’t,” she answered stiffly. “The great Mycroft Holmes doesn’t have to worry about anything!”

He was somewhat taken aback. “Molly, if you are under the impression that I do not feel, you are mistaken.”

“Then bloody act like it!” she snapped. “God, your brother is somewhere in a hovel, dying, and we can’t do anything about it! Doesn’t that bother you?!” With that, she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. “I’m just so tired, I hate it, I hate it- I hate that he’s not here, that he can’t be here, that he’s so bloody stupid sometimes and it’s because of him that he’s missing this, and I hate being mad at him!”

This agitated state could not have been good for the baby, but Mycroft felt himself pitying her, understanding her frustration to some extent. Glancing over his shoulder to be sure the door was closed, he set his mug down on the table, smoothed down his tie, and got to his feet.

Through her tears, she could hear him move around the coffee table, push it up against the couch, making room. He then stretched out beside her on the floor, also lying flat on his back. Molly felt Mycroft take one of her hands from her face, squeezing gently.

“Life is hardly fair,” he said quietly. “It does very little good to kick and scream about it.”

“Your bedside manner is bollocks,” Molly sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m new to all of this. I’m rather used to Sherlock calling me names as a form of getting along.”

“You used to play games,” Molly said.

At this Mycroft quirked a smile. “Yes, we did.”

“That’s how the Cluedo board got nailed to the wall.”

“I believe that was when Doctor Watson agreed to join us,” Mycroft recalled.

Molly sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I’m sorry if I yelled at you,” she said after a long while. “Hormones, and all that.”

“Do you feel better for it?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Especially because you’ve been so good to me.”

“Buying things is hardly what you need,” Mycroft answered. “I am…not very good at this whole sibling relationship.” He sighed heavily, lifting his eyes to look at the blank wall space. “I’m the wrong Holmes for it, always was.”

“You have your moments,” Molly said quietly. “This isn’t so bad, what you’re doing here.”

“Is it? It feels utterly bizarre.”

“I used to find Sherlock in the oddest positions,” Molly said, as if that explained it. She paused, feeling Mycroft turn to look at her. “Feet on the wall, half-hanging off the sofa, sometimes under the coffee table, once trying a hand-stand against the wall,”

Mycroft smirked, amused. “He never did know what to do with himself when he was bored.”

Suddenly, Molly sat up with a start, hand on her belly. Mycroft too sat up, concerned. “What is it?” he demanded, about to call for an ambulance.

“The babies are moving,” she gasped, delight spreading across her features.

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He had not been aware Molly was carrying twins. She caught his expression and suddenly looked sheepish.

“I wasn’t sure how to tell anyone, really. I still haven’t told your parents…or John and Mary…I don’t know, it felt like something…I don’t know…for Sherlock to know before anyone else.”

“Nothing is stopping you.”

She shook her head, clearly adamant. “No, Mycroft.” She would hear no more, even before Mycroft could even try, so he left it alone, at least for the time being.

Before he could offer some kind of encouragement, his phone rang. He retrieved it from his pocket, glancing apologetically at Molly before answering it.

“Hello?”

_“Brother dear…”_

Mycroft looked wildly to his sister in-law. She clearly had not heard who was on the other end, as she was getting to her feet to pour out the by now cold tea and make a fresh pot. Seeing that the phone call must have been a private one, Molly nodded him towards the bedroom.

“You can talk there, I won’t listen in,” she whispered, and he nodded his thanks, getting to his feet.

The door shut, Mycroft sighed.

“Well?”

_“Well, what, Mycroft? I’m calling you because I must fill you in.”_

“You sounded distressed, are you certain this is the best time?”

_“There is never a ‘best time’, if you mean there is less shelling currently, then yes.”_

Mycroft could hear the muffled sound of bombs exploding, sounding very distant. The noise still made his heart lurch, the sound of bombs going off was still too close to his brother. “What is the status then?” He asked finally.

_“On schedule finally. Nearing the end of it.”_

Mycroft was alarmed. There was finality in Sherlock’s voice, surety of his end, that he was coming to accept it, and was passing the information on as if it were an update on the weather. “Are you certain?”

_“Quite. Was nearly had today. Third time this week.”_

Sherlock chuckled, voice gravely, sounding tired.

“Why haven’t you called Molly, then?” Mycroft wanted to know.

A heavy sigh. _“I needed to send you the encrypted file. It should be downloaded by now. Your men can get to work on it as soon as I hang up.”_

“You should have called her.”

_“She’s told you then?”_

Mycroft toed the end of the rug with his shoe. “Yes…she’s told me, and the Watson’s. She has been visiting Mummy and Father, they are very happy with her, she gets on with them. She’s here now, at Baker Street. Moved her in a few weeks ago.” He looked around the room. “The color scheme is abominable.”

There was a watery laugh on the other end. _“I’m glad she’s there. It’s…good.”_

“Are there any…developments?” Mycroft asked slowly.

_“No. Nothing. I am certain this is almost over. Your people will have what they need before the mission is over, I promise.”_

Mycroft found it difficult to swallow. “It’s not…that is if the information is too-“

_“It’s all risky, Mycroft, that’s why I was sent. If you sent one of your plebian men on this mission they wouldn’t have survived the first week, let alone these six months. Time is running out, and I am fairly certain three of my informants are working for the other side, I’ll give you their names in my next packet for afterwards. I have to go, need to keep moving. If you don’t hear from me within a few weeks, it will be over.”_

Mycroft felt as if the room was tilting, his brother’s words turned over and over in his head. If in a few weeks…a few _weeks_.

“So soon?” Mycroft asked, quiet.

_“Afraid so. I won’t speak much more on it, won’t do any good. For any of us.”_

“No,” Mycroft agreed, voice somewhat gruff. “Is…there anything you would like me to do for you?”

_“Yes. Give Molly my love. Tell her…I’m sorry, for me, for whatever it’s worth.”_

There was a pause, and so Mycroft took advantage of it. “Yes I will. I will take care of her, you have my word on that.”

Sherlock’s end of the line was silent for a moment, before the sound of quiet movements continued, sounds of a pack being zipped up and put on.

 _“Thank you. Look after yourself as well. Molly will probably try to bake for you.”_ A long pause. _“You’re too skinny, Mycroft. A biscuit with your tea wouldn’t tip the scales. I hope you’ll treat Molly well. Better than we treated each other.”_

“We were not the best,” Mycroft agreed. “Molly does have a way of giving second chances to people.”

 _“She is often far more than any of us deserve, more than I ever deserved-“_ Muffled shouting could be heard, pounding on the walls wherever Sherlock was. _“I have to go. Be good to each other. Goodbye, Mycroft.”_

“Sherlock, wait, there is something you need to know-“ before Mycroft could say anymore, the line was disconnected.

Mycroft stared at the far wall, not liking the sinking feeling in his chest. He pocketed his phone, rubbing his nose with his wrist, sighing heavily. It was not enough of a release, and he felt his tie was constricting. Before he knew what he was doing, he tugged at it irritably, finding his breaths were coming in short puffs, and he could not regulate his intake.

The door at the other end opened, and he turned with a start, wild-eyed, pale.

The cup of tea was set aside, and Molly crossed the room, bringing Mycroft into her arms.

“He’s alive still,” he choked out.

Molly was quiet, squeezing the back of his neck. “For now.”

“He sends his love,” Mycroft said after a moment.

“You can cry, if you want,” Molly answered softly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mycroft was already pulling away, smoothing down his tie and fixing the knot. “It is…difficult. Each time he calls it serves as a reminder that he isn’t coming back. It’s like arsenic, doubles the effect every time.”

Molly hugged herself, sighing heavily. “This won’t do any good,” she sniffled. “I’ll run out of tea if we keep making it and then forgetting it. And all this crying isn’t making me feel any better.”

“I concur,” Mycroft nodded, heaving a sigh. “What shall we do about it?”

Molly stood for a moment, hands on her hips, chewing on her lip, thinking. “Want to go to lunch?” she asked finally.

Mycroft pondered her suggestion for a moment. “Very well.” He agreed.

“On one condition,” Molly held up her hand. “We avoid a certain subject at least until after dessert. I think we ought to let it alone until we’re out of public view.”

“Again, I concur,” Mycroft nodded. “Lead the way,”

That day, for the first time in weeks, Mycroft withheld news from Molly about Sherlock. Just as she couldn’t bring herself to tell her husband she was expecting twins, Mycroft could not tell his sister in-law that time was swiftly slipping away from them, and Sherlock’s time was vastly reduced.

They went to lunch, a cheery little restaurant that neither of them knew anything about (excepting that Mycroft sent agents in ahead of them to make sure it was clean and clear before they arrived). Unfamiliar meant it would not hold any memories of a certain loved one. Lunch was spent discussing Lamaze techniques, baby names, and what counted as ‘baby-proofing’. It amused Molly to no end that Mycroft wished to install a top of the line security system as soon as the babies were born.

With his afternoon clear, Mycroft was unsure as to what he should do after lunch. Molly had wanted to go to Harrods, so, having received several mildly threatening texts from Anthea, Mycroft went along. As they passed by a pet shop, Molly paused at the window to admire the cats and puppies.

“Sherlock hated seeing puppies here,” Mycroft suddenly spoke up. “When he was younger, he used to complain that puppies would always be adopted, and he’d worry constantly about the older dogs that were half-grown, still not purchased.”

“Oh don’t say that,” Molly cried mournfully. She looked longingly at the older animals romping around in their kennels. “Oh no, that’s too awful…”

Sensing a fit of tears, Mycroft quickly pulled her away, handing her his kerchief. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Slipped out.”

“Get me away quick before I buy them all,” Molly said in a tone that meant business.

The baby store was not one Mycroft ever envisioned himself standing in, and yet, there he was, pushing a trolly down the aisles as Molly tossed in baby booties, rompers and the like. 

“Mary Watson is going to throw me a baby shower,” Molly said after a while.

“That seems like her,” Mycroft said, frowning at the box she handed to him to put in the cart. “Are you certain you need this?”

“Mycroft, I’m carrying twins. I’ll need a breast pump eventually.”

It went into the cart with the other things.

“And what should I get you for this…baby shower?” Mycroft asked.

“Come if you like, John and Greg will be there, so you won’t be the only man.” Molly said over her shoulder. “Or at least come after, if you don’t want to converse with everyone. Your parents are coming for the weekend. Sally is making a cake with raspberry custard filling, and I invited Anthea.”

“I…will have to see.” Mycroft disliked small parties. One was forced to make small-talk, and especially if his parents where there, he did not relish the thought of standing in 221b, having to murmur some kind of polite response to every gift being opened.

“It’s all right if you can’t,” Molly smiled over her shoulder at him. “I know parties aren’t your thing.”

Mycroft was unused to feeling so much guilt, nor was he accustomed to adhering to it. “I will do my best to come, if you wish me to,” he said at last.

Molly paid for the things in the cart, refusing Mycroft’s fancy credit card that he tried twice to push into her hands.

The car met them in the parking lot, and James jumped out straight away, taking the bags from Mycroft (who had refused to let Molly carry anything). 

* * *

**A few weeks later…**

“Are you certain you won’t come?” Anthea asked, she lingered by the door to Mycroft’s office. Something was the matter, clearly, but he would not speak of it.

“I am sure. You have my gift?”

“Yes,” Anthea nodded. “James has it in the car already.” She stepped further in the room, shutting the door behind her. “Tell me what the matter is.”

“I am waiting for a call,” Mycroft said. “It may be late coming, but I cannot afford to miss it.”

“Sir…” Anthea trailed off, not wanting to dispel his hopes. It was not like him, to hope in what was improbable. She did not like seeing him so helpless. “It might prove to be a good distraction, going to the shower,” Anthea suggested.

“No,” Mycroft shook his head. “No I think this is best.”

“Come afterwards, give her your gift then,” Anthea pleaded. “She’d like it better, coming from you.”

Again, Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I will come if I know anything, otherwise I’ll stay here. I can’t go again with nothing substantial to give her. She needs something to hope for.”

“She needs her family,” Anthea answered steadily. “You, sir, promised to be her family.”

Mycroft looked up at her, about to speak, and then shut his mouth. “Very well,” he agreed finally. “Give her my gift for me, and let her know I will come after.”

Anthea reached across the desk, grasping his hand. “You aren’t alone, either, you know, Mycroft,” she said, her voice soft. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she got to her feet, heading out to the car.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

The baby shower was in full swing, the cake already cut into, coffee and tea passed around, Mike Stamford happily passing out bags of party favors.

“The Missus made them up,” he said, clearly chuffed. “She’s sorry she couldn’t come.”

“Give her my love,” Molly insisted, eyes crinkling in merriment as Greg roared with laughter, having read the instructions to a game to be played later after the presents were open. Already partners were being chosen to games. Even Anthea was enjoying herself, glad to be off the clock and away from her mobile for a little while. After the games were played everyone sat around, watching with keen delight as Molly began to open up the stack of gifts waiting for her. Greg had bought all the necessities nobody ever thinks of buying straight away: bottles, bottle cleaners, dummies, nail scissors made just for babies, teething rings and what looked to be a pallet of nappies. Anderson and Sally went halves on top-of-the-line car seats. Not to be outdone, Mary and John bought the best twin stroller money could buy, along with several sets of matching outfits. Violet and Sigurd Holmes brought knitted blankets, one with bees crocheted around the edges, the other with mice. Both were made of soft, pink and blue yarn. Violet had also knitted caps, booties and diaper covers, to which everyone cooed and exclaimed over. Mycroft’s gift was beautiful: two cribs, hand carved, looking very expensive indeed, along with a beautiful rocking chair.

A sudden knock on the door amid all the noise of the guests did not disturb anyone, did not raise any alarms. Indeed the merriment continued as Greg went to answer it, cheerfully offering to help John put the cribs together after the party.

Opening the door, he was surprised to see what was on the other side of it.

“A gift,” Mycroft said, looking quite haggard.

“Cripes,” Greg breathed, shocked at seeing the usually poised and polished Mycroft Holmes looking so run-down, and too of what he was carrying. “Well, uh, bring it in, hey Molls-“

Something in the D.I.’s tone made her look up. Her smile fell as Mycroft approached her. On his arm, he held a leash, and at the end of it, pulling with all its might to sit next to her, was a beautiful blue Staffordshire bull terrier. 

Slowly, Molly reached forward. The dog nosed her belly, tail wagging. It pressed its nose further against Molly’s abdomen, tail slowed, then lifted its head to smell Molly’s neck and ears. After a moment, it sat on Molly’s shoes, leaning against her.

“She’s completely trained,” Mycroft said quietly. “I’m told Staffordshire’s make excellent family pets. Nanny dogs, they’re called.”

“She’s beautiful,” Molly said, quite feelingly. “When did you get her?”

“I didn’t,” Mycroft answered. He pulled a letter from his pocket, somewhat wrinkled. “Shall I?”

“Please,” Molly nodded, curious. She idly stroking the dog’s short ears, admiring the dog’s calm demeanor.

Mycroft unfolded the letter, clearing his throat.

_“Dearest Molly,_

_We once discussed getting a dog, you wanted one for protection at your flat, while I was away. I am sorry to say that this ‘case’ will keep me away for a very long time, but I hope this companion will prove a suitable protection for you, and good company, probably better than I could be. She was the oldest the pet-shop had, and I have been paying one of my Irregulars to take her to obedience training. Her name is Alfhild, naturally, after a pirate. I am sorry I could not give her to you in person, but I trust that you will receive her kindly (Toby may take longer in getting used to her)._

_As this is most likely being read aloud, and more than likely my last correspondence to you, I will sign the letter with all of my affection,_

_Signed,_

_Your Sherlock.”_

Mycroft folded the letter, handing it to Molly who took it with her free hand.

“Well there it is,” Molly broke the silence, tears already falling. “Making decisions for me, halfway across the world, the tit.” With that she broke down, releasing the dog’s collar as she held herself, her sobs filled the room.

Nobody moved for a moment, too overcome, too shocked at the news. It was expected, Sherlock not coming back. But the letter only made it fresh again in their minds that they would not see the Consulting Detective again.

Violet Holmes thrust the tea-tray she’d been holding into Anderson’s hands and went to Molly, embracing her.

“Mrs. Watson,” Mycroft spoke up, voice quiet. “I wonder if you would be good enough to help everyone find their coats. I think it is time we called it a day.”

No one needed urging. Quietly, they each filed by Molly who had calmed down to the point of looking numb. Just like that, the baby shower had suddenly become a funeral, only no one could find words. Only John and Mary stayed behind, helping Sigurd and Violet clean up. Alfhild, distressed at her new mistress’ tears whined piteously, wriggling back and forth at Molly’s feet until, at Mary’s urging, jumped onto the sofa, crawling half-way onto Molly’s lap.

“I’ll sit with her, Mother,” Mycroft said. “Will you make a pot of tea?”

“Yes,” Violet got to her feet, smoothing Molly’s hair aside. “I’ll just be in the kitchen dear, call if you need anything.”

Mycroft sat down between Molly and the arm of the sofa. Quietly, he took her hand, squeezing gently.

“You were waiting to hear from him,” Molly said after a long while.

Slowly, he nodded.

She turned her head to study him. “And did you?”

“No,” he stared at his lap, picking at a bit of lint. “The letter came a few weeks ago, with a request it not be opened until today. Billy, one of Sherlock’s irregulars, has been training the dog, he had been instructed to bring her first to me, and I would be the one to deliver the dog. The fact that it coincided with your baby shower, I should like to think, it coincidental.”

“’The universe is rarely so lazy’,” Molly quoted. “Do…do you think he knew?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t know. He made no mention of it in his letter.”

“He would have said, if he did know,” Molly decided. “Wouldn’t he? It seems like something he’d mention.” She phrased it as if it were a question, looking at him for confirmation, and Mycroft could not bring himself to say what he truly thought.

“He would have mentioned it,” Mycroft answered softly, looking at her directly.

Mary entered the living room, holding a mug of tea. “Hey,” she held out the cup to Molly. “You look like you could use a cuppa.”

“Thanks,” Molly accepted it, though she did not drink any of it. She kept one arm around Alfhild, idly stroking her short fur.

“Are you tired? Do you want me to run you a bath?” Mary offered. “Violet said she’d turn your bed down if you like.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” Molly said suddenly. She looked at Mycroft and Mary. “I want to put the cribs together, tonight.”

“The nursery hasn’t been painted yet,” Mycroft objected. “It’d be silly to-“

Molly was already standing up, grasping Mary’s hand to steady her. “Tonight,” she interrupted, quite firm.

That night, despite the somber feeling amongst the small group, two cribs were put together.

“Never thought I’d see baby things here,” John commented, wearing a sad smile. “It’s good, seeing them here…” he trailed off, clearly lost in memories of a time when he and Sherlock had been baching it, and how different his life was now. Happy, to be sure, and he would not trade Mary or baby Charlotte for anything in the world. But it was still a great loss, losing your best friend.

Molly stroked her belly, tired, but glad to see the finished work. Mycroft, having discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves up, helped Mary shift the cribs against the wall before stepping back to admire their handiwork.

“I still say we should have waited until the painters came in,” he said, smoothing back is somewhat mussed hair.

“I don’t care,” Molly replied. “Sherlock never did things in the proper order, why should I?”

Mary smiled in response, squeezing her arm as she passed. “John and I will bring your parents to their hotel, do you need anything else?”

“No,” Molly shook her head, turning to embrace her friend. “Thank you.” More tearful goodbyes were exchanged, Violet and Sigurd promised to return in the morning for an early breakfast before their train.

Slowly, Mycroft rolled his sleeves back down, buttoning his cuffs and sliding his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

“Will you be all right tonight?” he asked as Molly saw him to the door.

She shrugged in response, not meeting his gaze. “Will you?”

“Well enough,” he answered, to which she nodded. “Call, if you need anything, anything at all.”

“I will,” she promised. Just as he was about to leave, she caught him by the arm, hugging him tightly.

After a moment, he returned the embrace, feeling his resolve wavering, and he bowed his head, forehead against her shoulder. He heaved a shuddering sigh, sniffling. After a long moment, he stepped away, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Text me, when you get in,” Molly said, folding her arms across her middle. “Okay? I want to know you got home safe.”

“I will,” her sudden insistence on being updated did not surprise him, after all he kept tabs on her. The loss of Sherlock though would push her to demand status updates from those she loved. “I’ll see you later tomorrow…and there will be a short ceremony at the end of the week, for Sherlock, just family and close friends.”

“Good,” Molly nodded, wiping her nose. “Not a bloody circus like last time.”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head. “I couldn’t bear that again.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else.

“I’ll call, if I need anything, I promise,” she said, and he nodded at last. “Go on,” she gestured to the open door. “Go mourn, get it out of your system.”

He nodded, once again lost in in thought. “Goodnight, Molly,” he touched her cheek briefly, before ducking his head and hurrying out and down to the street where his car was waiting.

Climbing in, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

_Are you awake? -M_

_For you, sir, always. -A_

_Difficult night tonight. -M_

_I had thought as much. Already cleaned out your cabinets, am here for the night, so there’s no getting rid of me. – A_

_Thank you. -M_

Like his younger brother, Mycroft had his vices. Only Anthea was privy to this knowledge and could be trusted to take the necessary measures to keep him safe. He appreciated her more than ever, for as soon as he got home, she took his coat from him, gently guiding him upstairs.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she urged softly.

“Life, the universe, everything,” he muttered, recalling suddenly Molly’s reference.

“I’m sorry?” Anthea frowned, not quite understanding.

He sighed heavily. “Everything,” he clarified. “Everything is wrong.”


	4. I See Momentary Glimpses

The morning came, much to Molly’s displeasure, and as much as she wanted to stay in bed, she knew it would be best if she simply got up. Only for the good of her children was Molly digging through her drawers for something decent to wear. Alfhild was at her side the entire time, large paws shuffling after Molly, plopping down outside the shut bathroom door when she refused to let her in. Finished with her morning ablutions, Molly picked up her phone to see who had messaged her. Mike Stamford had texted, letting her know her shift was covered, and he wanted her to take the day. Just as well, Molly might have been able to put clothes on, but she wasn’t up to having to face her usual workload too.

A knock on the door just as the kettle was boiling reminded her that Violet and Sigurd would be stopping by for breakfast. One wild look in the fridge reminded her that she only had leftovers from her baby shower (at least half a slow-cooker of cocktail hotdogs, a dozen savory pastry pinwheels, and far too much cake).

With a weary sigh, she went to the door, hushing Alfhild, who refused to stop barking and making a show of protecting Molly until she smelled Violet and Sigurd and recalled them to be ‘friendly’.

“That PA of Mycroft’s sent over some things for the dog, and for breakfast as well,” Violet said, looking just as tired as Molly felt. “How are you dear?”

“Tired,” Molly replied, kissing Sigurd’s proffered cheek. “Kettle has just boiled,”

They sat and ate quietly, if tears were quietly shed, everyone pretended not to notice. Tears were expected, and there wasn’t any use in trying to stop them from falling.

“You must come to the house this weekend,” Violet urged. “Don’t stay cooped up here by yourself.”

Molly didn’t give a definite response, but she was fairly certain Mycroft’s car would be arriving at Baker Street Friday evening, whether she wanted it or not.

In the end, she did go to the country, Alfhild at her side. She was grateful for Sherlock’s gift; the constant presence of the dog was a great comfort. By some miracle, Toby took a liking to the dog right away, purring contentedly, kneading the dog’s sleek belly and cleaning her ears. Molly took a video, sent it to Sherlock’s number, then suddenly remembered there was no one on the other end to receive it. But the video had sent, it hadn’t returned with any error message. More than likely the phone’s battery was dead, and the video was lost somewhere, but Molly realized she liked the idea of being able to send videos off into nothingness, even if the one she wanted most to see them was gone. Caught up in a wave of ambition, she swiped through her photographs, sending a picture of her most recent sonogram. That sent through as well.

It became a private habit. Every morning, Molly got up, sent a text or a snapshot of Baker Street, sent it to Sherlock’s old number, and then went on with her day. There was no chance of him ever seeing the photographs or texts, so Molly wrote everything that she wished she’d told him before he’d died.

The day of Sherlock’s funeral was, fittingly so, cold and raining. Violet could not bear to see her son buried a second time, and so she and Sigurd stayed away, but sent Molly their love and they in turn, sent nearly half a dozen messages for her to come visit as soon as she was able.

In a quiet lot, towards the back of the cemetery they all gathered.

Greg stared at the unturned earth, looking dazed and utterly numb, a feeling they all shared.

John and Mary held hands, fingers laced. Mrs. Hudson hung on John’s other arm, visibly shaken, truly disturbed.

The jingling of tags made them all look, and there, coming through the grassy path was Molly and Mycroft, Alfhild on a short leash looped around Molly’s wrist.

“She was agitated at my going,” Molly said softly. “So I just…brought her.”

No one seemed offended, most simply nodded, murmuring some kind of understanding.

Sally Donovan was the first to speak, and though she didn’t cry (she wasn’t the type), her voice was soft, somewhat humbled, and she spoke honestly. The man who had once aggravated her to no end had become a good man, and she spoke well of his work for the police, and for London. John only said a few words, voice gruff, murmuring apologies when he couldn’t finish. Greg looked around, then stepped forward. Pulling out a piece of notebook paper, he shuffled his feet as he read aloud what he’d managed to pen the previous evening. By the time he finished, everyone was quietly crying, save Mycroft, who was staring at the headstone with some kind of iron will that Molly could only wish for a portion of.

At the end of it all, Mycroft took Molly home while the others went to a nearby pub for a much-needed pint or two.

That had been the worst day.

There were still awful days after that, especially milestone days in her pregnancy that she should have shared with Sherlock, instead of sending a text out into the nothingness. She started telling Mycroft about her pregnancy. After a while, he got rather used to hearing about her symptoms, and often had Anthea send over remedies or exercises for Molly to try. Greg often joined Molly for exercise classes, not at all phased by the fact that he was the only male in the studio, cheerfully stretching (and grunting just as much as those around him). Mycroft sometimes picked Molly up from her Lamaze classes, though he could not bring himself to offer to be her Lamaze coach (Mrs. Hudson had eagerly asked if she might go along on the classes with Molly, to which she happily agreed).

John and Mary made a constant effort as well to always be on call or nearby. Molly needed friends, and they needed her as well. Anthea, who knew nothing about motherhood or baby-rearing, often joined Molly and Mary, listening with morbid fascination as the two women described their ailments. Sally was the last to join their Thursday night ‘girl chats’. Molly wanted to get to know the woman better, and knew the feeling of being left out. Sally was a marvelous addition to their group, and Molly was glad for her company, as they often had the same evenings off, and since Mary was often busy with being a wife and mother, and Anthea was busy being personal assistant to the country, Sally was the most likely candidate to come over at the drop of a hat for Doctor Who marathons.

Molly’s due date was creeping up fast, and of all people, Mycroft was the most agitated. He insisted John Watson stop by every day and check Molly’s vitals, update him on the condition of the twins, and any other changes.

“Honestly Mycroft, you act as if you’re the father,” John groused. He paused suddenly, glancing between Molly and Mycroft.

“No.” both of them said at the same time.

“I thought not,” John replied. “Because I know you _said_ -“

“Believe me, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interrupted. “If Molly were carrying my children, do you _really_ think I would entrust her welfare to _you_?”

John’s frown was something akin to murder, to which the elder Holmes merely shrugged off while Molly did her best to smother her giggles.

“Be nice, boys,” Molly said.

“Here I was thinking I was missing that Holmes snark,” John muttered, winking at Molly. “Whoops, oi in there, cut that out-“ John ordered the twins as they kept kicking his stethoscope.

“They don’t like the cold,” Molly said, laughing, again causing her belly to move.

“Well I don’t like my eardrums being kicked,” John replied, removing the stethoscope, warming up the metal on his hands before replacing it. After a few moments he nodded, setting the instrument back into his bag. “All’s well, how do you feel?”

“Tired, bloated, horrendous, like a giant tellytubby.”

John nodded. “That about sums it up. You’re on schedule far as I can tell, heartbeats are all normal, no discomfort, other than the usual?”

“No, everything is about the same. Kicking seems to have increased.”

Mycroft looked, alarmed, at Watson, who only folded his arms across his chest, nodding.

“That’s to be expected. I expect space is getting somewhat cramped for the pair of them. If it’s getting to be too much, sit if you’re standing, or lie on your side. More than likely the babies will find something else to do.”

“It’s the rib kicks that hurt,” Molly grunted, shifting her weight, tugging down the hem of her blouse.

“Try some pelvic tilts,” John suggested. “Or a gentle nudge.” He started closing up his bag. “You’ve got your maternity bag all packed for the big day, though?”

“Yes it’s over the by door,” Molly nodded. “And Mrs. Hudson will look after Alfhild while I’m in hospital, goodness knows how long it will all be.”

“Good girl,” John pecked a kiss on her forehead. “I’m off to pick up my girls, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Right.”

“I’ll see myself out,” he waved once more, disappearing out the door and down the stairs.

Mycroft waited until the front door shut before heading to the kitchen. “Tea?”

“If you’ve got time,” Molly said, boosting herself to the edge of the couch and then easing herself up to her feet. She caught the expression on Mycroft’s face as he set up the tray. “What is it?” she asked, realizing he wanted to talk to her.

“You’re still messaging his phone.” Mycroft didn’t look at her, pretending to be absorbed in opening the packet of crackers.

Slowly, she nodded. “It’s…therapeutic,” she confessed. “It’s daft, I know it’s daft, his phone was dead probably weeks and weeks and weeks before we even knew, but…I don’t know…it makes me feel like-“ she shrugged helplessly. “I know he isn’t seeing the messages, dead is dead. But when I text his phone it’s like,” her mouth twisted into a grimace, and she covered her eyes with her free hand. “It’s like I still have a piece of him.”

“You do,” Mycroft replied gently. “You’ve got two pieces of him,” he nodded to her belly, where her left hand idly traced patterns.

“Is it selfish of me to want him too?” she asked.

He shook his head, studying her. “No.” Carrying the tray into the living room, he set it down before seating himself across from her with a grunt. “No, it rather makes you human, something we Holmes are strictly against.”

“No it isn’t, stop it,” Molly scolded. “If that were true you wouldn’t be here, and I certainly wouldn’t be carrying Sherlock’s children.”

“Hmm, yes you do have an annoying way of bringing out the sentiment in us,” Mycroft nodded.

Molly picked up the teapot before he could. “How is Anthea?” she asked, changing subjects abruptly. She suppressed the urge to grin as he shifted slightly in his chair. Defenses were up. How curious.

“I would imagine she is perfectly fine, why?”

“No reason,” Molly shrugged, lifting her eyebrows innocently. “She just said that you’d asked her to dinner the other night.”

Again he shifted in his chair. “Perhaps it was for business.”

“No one takes a woman to a cozy little restaurant to discuss _business_ ,” Molly replied, handing him a teacup. “And if you did, so help me I’ll make you come to the rest of my Lamaze classes.”

The look Mycroft threw at her was positively livid, clearly torn between telling her just to get out of going to a birthing class, and subjecting himself to the tedium, and take his secret to the grave. Instead, he asked her a question:

“Has she said anything?”

Molly’s smile was knowing, it reached her eyes. “She said she thought it went well. You were quite romantic in your own way, though she wouldn’t have minded your being slightly less than a gentlemen and given her a little pawing in the car on the way home.”

Mycroft’s cheeks bloomed red to the tips of his ears. “She did not,” he stammered, now clearly squirming in his chair.

“No,” Molly laughed. “Maybe not _quite_ that, but she hopes next time you’ll kiss her goodnight.”

Mycroft coughed. “Yes, well…perhaps.”

“What do you mean ‘perhaps’, you have asked her out again, haven’t you?”

“Molly-“ his tone was warning, which Molly returned. He sighed heavily. “Yes of course, another ‘date’ as you call it was scheduled that night.”

“I know it’s difficult to talk to anyone about these things,” Molly said. “But I’ll just say this: if you’re serious, really serious, don’t spend the first dates faffing about. A girl likes to know the man she’s out with really is interested. She doesn’t want someone who’s playing hard to get. Swallow your pride and just…go for it. It took Sherlock ages to come round, him and his bloody pride,” she fell silent, thoughtful. “I wish we’d both put aside our high opinions of ourselves and just admitted we liked each other ages and ages ago. We might’ve had more time.”

Mycroft said nothing, choosing instead to take a drink before setting his cup down. Still, he was clearly thinking on what Molly had said.

* * *

**One Month Later**

“What, you mean they’re really dating?” Greg helped Molly to her feet off the yoga mat.

“Yep,” she took a towel, wiping the sweat from her neck. “It’s going all right I think. Anthea says it’s looking…really well, actually.” Her smile was somewhat bittersweet.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Molly blinked, nodding. “I’m happy for them, don’t ever think I’m not.”

“It’s hard,” Greg nodded. “Seeing other people happy and getting on.”

“Speaking of getting on, how are you and Sally?”

Greg shuffled his feet, blushing. “Met her folks last weekend.”

“Yeah?!” Molly grinned at his expression. “What’d they say? How’d it go?”

“Great, better than great,” he picked up their gym bags, giving his arm for her to hold onto while she shoved her feet into her slip-on sneakers. “Asked her dad for permission.”

“Oh that’s _fantastic!_ ” she hugged him then, squeezing with as much strength as she could muster. “I am so happy for you both!”

“Yeah, oi, okay!” Greg laughed, but quickly grew serious, wagging a finger at her. “But don’t you dare tell her or anyone else yet! She doesn’t know, and I’ve got the whole thing planned out.”

“Yeah?” Molly asked, still grinning ear to ear. “You gonna get down on one knee and everything?”

“Course,” he nodded with a laugh. “Got flowers and everything.”

“Good for you,” Molly smiled. “I’m happy for you, you and Sally, and Mycroft and Anthea.”

Greg pulled her in for a one-armed hug, kissing her forehead. “Thanks Molls.”

In due course, announcements were made, Greg and Sally celebrated their engagement at Angelo’s, surrounded by family and close friends. Anthea even talked Mycroft into their making an appearance, if only to give Molly a ride home. The usual gold ring Anthea wore on her right hand was missing, in its place was a subtle solitaire diamond in a platinum setting. Molly took her hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not a word,” Anthea whispered, hushed, though she was smiling. She glanced around the room. “We want to keep it quiet. We’ll let you know when the official date is, but let’s leave it for now, we don’t want to steal Greg and Sally’s thunder tonight.”

Molly promised to keep it hush-hush, though she pressed Mycroft’s cheek, whispering congratulations to him.

* * *

**That Night**

_Everything is changing now. Greg and Sally are engaged, the date is set for this summer, July sixteenth. She asked me to be matron-of-honor, and Mary and Anthea to be bridesmaids. I think I’m walking down the aisle with Dimmock, or Greg’s brother, not sure which. Speaking of brothers, yours got engaged as well, naturally to Anthea. They seem happy. Everyone is happy. – MollyH_

Her phone beeped: _Message Sent_

_You’d be asking me if I’m happy, and the answer is…I’m getting there. I’d be so much happier if you were here. I’m learning to be happy again, I suppose is a more appropriate answer. I’m about a week from my due-date, and the idea of being a mummy all by myself is absolutely petrifying. I wish you were here. I’ve had such a time thinking of names. I’ve settled, finally, and I think you’d be happy with what I’ve chosen. Alfhild is nudging me, which means I’ve been up too late. I’ll say goodnight. Love you! Xoxo -MollyH_

_Message Sent_

With a sigh, she plugged her phone in and put out the light, patting the empty space on the bed. Alfhild jumped up, whining piteously, nosing Molly’s belly.

“Oi, stop that, you’ve got a cold nose!” Molly laughed. “Come on, lie down big girl.” The dog obeyed, head resting as close to the top of Molly’s belly as her neck would allow. “That can’t be comfortable,” Molly commented, trying to shift Alfhild so that she could lay beside her. The dog flattened herself out, digging her elbows and paws into the mattress. “All right, lay there if you want,” Molly shrugged. “If you get a stiff neck it’s your own fault.”

Alfhild blew out her jowls, clearly annoyed that her mistress was not listening, scooted closer, whining, with increased volume.

“Good grief, what’s wrong- ohhhhhhhh…” Molly sat up suddenly, feeling her waters let. “Well there’s that…” Swinging her feet over the end of the bed, she hefted herself up with a grunt, grabbing her mobile off the bedside table. Quickly dialing Mycroft’s number, she went to her wardrobe, pulling out a change of clothes.

 _“Hello?”_ Clearly he’d been asleep.

“It’s about that time,” Molly said.

“What? Oh!” Mycroft sat bolt up in bed. “Have you called an ambulance? Never mind, I’ll call, stay put, don’t move, what do you need?”

“No I haven’t called one yet, that was next on my to-do list. I’m all right, my water broke is all. It might be a few more hours before my contractions even start to get ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-d-“ she gripped the end of the bed, feeling a spasm of pain in her lower belly. “That was just a contraction-“ she said, once she’d caught her breath. “It’s okay. I’m staring a timer,” she swiped through her phone for a stop-watch. “I’ll be okay-“

“Like hell you will!” Mycroft struggled into his trousers, trying to balance the phone on his shoulder. “Don’t. Move. I’m coming over. An ambulance will be there shortly. Wake up Mrs. Hudson, don’t you dare move.”

“Well I’d like to change out of these soiled pants,” Molly said, unable to hold back a smile. 

“You can’t change your clothes!” Mycroft sounded horrified.

“Try and stop me, I’m not going to the hospital in soiled underwear!” Molly carefully shimmied out of her pajamas, finding a flannel to clean herself up and carefully, carefully, step into a loose shift and yoga pants. If she had to go to the hospital, she wanted to at least be comfortable. “I promise I won’t go anywhere, I’ll call down for Mrs. Hudson. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” with that, Mycroft hung up, grabbing the rest of his clothes, dialing down to the garage for a car, as well as sending for an ambulance.

The east side of baker street was lit up with flashing lights in less than twenty minutes, just as Molly sent off a quick text to Sherlock’s phone:

_Today’s the big day. Babies on launch-pad, T minus 10 and counting! – MollyH_

Mycroft made it about the same time as the ambulance did, hurrying up after the EMT’s.

“I do not need a stretcher, thank you,” Molly said, when Mycroft suggested she be put on a gurney. “Don’t you dare make them,” The EMT’s suppressed their laughter, instead helping Molly down to the waiting vehicle while Mycroft took Molly’s overnight bag.

* * *

The sun was just cresting the horizon when Mycroft called the Watson’s into the delivery room. Mary and John had texted Greg and Sally, and kept Mrs. Hudson updated. John pulled out his phone to dial the elderly woman just once more, informing her of the successful birth.

“Oh Molly,” Mary sighed, seeing her friend tiredly cuddling the newborns.

“They’re small, but that’s to be expected,” Molly said with a sheepish smile. “There can’t have been much room down there for them.” Gently she held out the girl for Mary to take. “This is Lavender,”

“Oh hello sweet thing,” Mary cooed. “Oh look at you,”

John came to stand beside his wife, peering at the baby in her arms, warmly smiling at the tiny bundle.

“The boy is called William, for Sherlock,” Molly said, she held him out to Mycroft, who after a moment, took him.

“One can only hope he won’t copy his father in all things,” He glanced up at Molly, who returned his gentle smile. “Well,” he cleared his throat, handing William back to her. “I’ll go and call Anthea, tell her the good news.”

“Right miss” John said, all business-like. “Time for a feeding lesson, and since Mycroft is giving me a certain look, I’m guessing he wants me to do it.”

“You guess correctly, Doctor Watson, how sharp you are this early morning.” Mycroft replied, hand over the speaker of his phone before he retreated from the room.

So Molly’s family grew by two that morning, and after three days spent recovering in the hospital, she returned to Baker Street. John and Mary and Charlotte would be staying for a few days to help her get settled while she recuperated.

“Oughtn’t I hire a nurse,” Mycroft objected, but Molly waved her hand at him, shaking her head.

“Honestly, Mycroft, they’ve had a child, and Mary is a nurse, John is a bloody doctor. You couldn’t get a live-in doctor-nurse pairing if you owned half the world!”

“Who says I don’t?” Mycroft sniffed.

“I do,” Molly said. “I _want_ John and Mary to stay with me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft agreed.

Her second night home, Molly woke to the sound of Lavender crying. Yawning, Molly got to her feet, shuffling into her slippers. Alfhild got up as well, following after her. For now the cribs would be in Molly’s room, but in a few months, John and Mary would help her move them upstairs to the nursery, and Mycroft would have some top-of-the-line baby monitor installed.

Carefully, she lifted Lavender from her crib, shushing her gently. “I know baby, I know, shh, you’ll wake your brother, and if he’s anything like his father, he won’t stop until he’s eaten us out of house and home.” Molly laughed softly, remembering her husband’s eating habits. Sherlock would go days without proper food, surviving on Quavers and black coffee until a case was finished, then he’d show up at her flat, where Molly would have prepared a weeks’ worth of lunches, which he’d promptly devour in one sitting.

At her feet, Alfhild settled while Molly sank into the rocking chair to nurse Lavender. “I wish he could see you both,” Molly said after a moment, gently rocking back and forth. “I wish a lot of things, I guess that’s selfish of me. I’ve got quite a bit right now, after all…”

Suddenly, Alfhild lifted her head, hackles raised as she bared her teeth. Molly sat up, feeling her heart drop. She stopped rocking, sitting forward in the chair. Eyes wide, she stared, wide-eyed at the open doorway, at the figure looming there. They were frozen in place, staring back at her. Alfhild rose to her feet, placing herself between Molly and the stranger, growling low and menacingly. Molly watched the figure reach over to the switch on the wall, flicking the lamp by the door on. The room was illuminated in a soft glow.

_“Sherlock?”_

He stepped through the door, trembling. Molly made to stand, but she had no strength and she sank to her knees. Alfhild leaned against her, seating herself when she realized her mistress was not disturbed.

With her free hand Molly reached out, and familiar fingers grasped her wrist, drawing her hand up to cup his cheek. Lean arms wrapped around her frame, catching her, holding her upright, and Molly stared, wild-eyed, tears falling freely. “How?” she murmured, overcome. “How is it possible?” She reached up, carding her fingers through his shorn hair.

“Th-they had to shave my head…lice from jail…it’s finally growing back now.” Was all he could say. He traced the shape of her face, her lips her nose, finally capturing her mouth in his.

“Sherlock…” she murmured against him, clinging to him with her free arm. “Is this real? This isn’t a dream? It can’t be a dream…”

“No, it’s not,” he spoke at last, voice rough, thick with emotion. “I didn’t know…I couldn’t…I got away and I never knew, even when I finally got on the plane if I could get back to you.”

Lavender, nestled between the pair of them, gurgled, Molly’s breast fallen from her mouth.

Both Sherlock and Molly sat back, the former looking with surprise.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Molly murmured, hoisting Lavender back up, the baby reattached herself, feeding once again. Molly looked up to see Sherlock’s expression of wonderment. “We have twins,” she said at last. “A boy and a girl. You’re a father.”

“Yes I know,” he murmured, still staring with fascination as he watched their daughter breastfeed. “I got your texts.”

Molly sat back with a startled sob, covering her mouth. _“You what?”_

“I couldn’t respond, couldn’t send any outgoing messages,” Sherlock retrieved the burner phone from his pocket, the keys smashed. “But I could receive messages. I got them, all seventy-five, pictures included.”

Lavender finished feeding, so Molly, still dumbfounded by this revelation, lifted her onto her shoulder. Sherlock took a cloth from the bedside table, cleaning her up. The action was tender and gentle, and Molly wanted to weep all over again, which she did, smiling at him through her tears.

“Can I…may I hold her?” he asked softly. Molly passed her to him without question, showing him how to support her head. He cradled their daughter, studying her intently. Molly went to the second crib, picking up a sleeping William. Alfhild was at her heels, watching her mistress carry the precious cargo.

“And here is your son,” Molly said softly. Sherlock sank onto the edge of the bed, and Molly placed William in his arms.

“Surely you don’t want to call him William,” Sherlock said at last, blinking back tears.

“Yes I do, anyway you weren’t here to tell me not to.”

He looked at her, expression guilty, heartsick. “I’m sorry,” he said, soft, humble. “I’ve missed so much, but this,” he looked at their children. “This is something I shall always regret missing.”

“I think you’ve felt guilty long enough,” Molly said, leaning over to kiss him gently. “Please don’t, just…stay. Stay forever.”

“My dear woman, what did you think I’ve come all this way for?” Again he kissed her, and Molly cupped his face, crawling onto his lap, careful of the children as she kissed him anywhere her lips would reach. Sherlock laughed, quietly at first, but he couldn’t help it, finally guffawing, grinning from ear to ear, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, unable to take his eyes from his wife.

Woken by the noise, William began to cry, and Lavender joined him. Alfhild, sensing that despite her mistress and this man’s laughter, the children were crying, so she wriggled back and forth, barking as loud as she could.

John and Mary came thumping up the stairs, bursting into the bedroom.

Molly and Sherlock both sat up, he passed her one of the children, wary of what John’s reaction would be.

“Oh you bloody-“ John leaned against the doorframe, covering his mouth. Mary, trembling, hung onto his arm, laughing through her tears.

“Oh my god, someone call Mycroft,” was all she got out.

John, wiping his face, managed to get to his feet, stumbled to his best friend. Molly took Lavender from Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock, in turn, embraced John.

“You stupid, wonderful idiot,” John said, muffled against Sherlock’s scroungy jacket.

“I know,” Sherlock admitted. “So if you want to hit me, you can.”

“I’m not gonna hit you, not today anyway,” John laughed, squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Go on and kiss Mary, I’ll call your brother.”

Mary was greeted in a similar fashion, before she went back downstairs to fetch Charlotte, whom Sherlock very happily greeted.

In short order, Mycroft arrived at Baker Street. John’s text seemed urgent, though the doctor had insisted that no security was needed, just Mycroft’s presence. Fearing the worst, he took the steps two at a time, nearly breaking the door off the hinges as he burst into 221b.

Everyone sat in the living room, Sherlock stood up quickly, looking at his brother.

Mycroft stared. He blinked, clearly shaking. He looked at Molly, then back at Sherlock.

“My God-“ Mycroft sat down hard, covering his face with his hands, unable to control his sobs of relief.

Shocked, John very quietly went to the kitchen, gesturing for Mary to come with him. As much as he liked to see Mycroft break-free from his Ice-Man persona, the elder Holmes would not forgive himself, or them, if they watched this display.

Sherlock helped his brother to his feet. “You’ve lost weight,” Sherlock said finally. “I thought I told you a biscuit or two wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Wouldn’t do you any harm either, brother-mine, you’ve dropped a stone and a half.”

“Not to worry, I’m sure Molly will be fattening me up in no time.”

“You’ll have to watch her,” Mycroft said, finding it difficult to speak. “She likes to bake.”

From the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle, and the sound of cups and tea tins being set out could be heard. Over steaming mugs, Sherlock told them how he’d escaped death, and how he’d found his way back to England over the past four months. Just before dawn, Mycroft left Baker Street. He would go directly to the country to fetch Violet and Sigurd personally.

“I’ll have Anthea fetch Inspector Lestrade and Donovan, bring them over about the same time Mummy and Father get here. You ought to rest for now.”

“Don’t be bossy,” Sherlock said, Molly responded by flicking him on the ear.

“Listen to your brother, he’s taken good care of us while you were away.”

Sherlock harrumphed, but got to his feet, calling goodnight to John and Mary, who lay back down on the pullout sofa, deciding they could do with a bit of rest after the night’s excitement.

Babies all fast off, having been fed once more, Molly and Sherlock climbed into bed. Sherlock settled comfortably behind her, knees drawn up behind hers. He pressed a kiss to her neck.

“Have I mentioned that I have missed this?” he murmured sleepily.

“No, but it’s implied,” Molly said with a quiet laugh. “Rest for now. I’ll give you a proper welcome tonight, when you’ve got your strength back.” She paused, biting her cheek to keep from giggling. “You’ll need it.”

“Minx,” he murmured, kissing her again.

“Hush,” she murmured, soothing his arms. “Rest for now.”

“Mycroft took good care of you,” He said quietly.

Molly turned around in his arms looking up at him. “He did.”

“As good as me?”

“Oh no,” Molly smiled. “I won’t say that he was terrible, though he’d say he was the wrong Holmes for it, he did a fairly good job of looking after all of us.”

“But not as good as me,” Sherlock, despite desperate need for sleep, in fact he was falling asleep as he spoke, could not help but smirk.

“Never,” Molly said against his mouth. “He’s a good man, your brother, but he’s not you.” She kissed him once more (deciding she’d never, ever tire of that). “Now go to sleep.”

“Molly?”

“Hm?”

“I’ll see you when I wake up.” He seemed to be realizing this.

Slowly, she opened her tired eyes, smiling up at him.

“Every morning.”

“Every morning,” he repeated, hushed. Resting his forehead against hers’, he at last gave himself up to sleep, Molly close behind.

Safe in Sherlock’s arms, finally, Baker Street at last was home. 


End file.
